The Fourth Life
by AutumnBelle
Summary: Luke, on the day he ends his third heroic life and enters the Isles of the Blest. A familiar face, the last he would have expected, is there to guide him into eternity.


Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

* * *

"Isn't this just special," King Aeacus said flatly. He balanced his glasses precariously on the tip of his nose and studied the book that sat in front of him on the judgment table.

Roy O'Conner studied the man carefully, trying to read into his apathy. Despite his relaxed posture and sarcastic words, his eyes scanned the pages of the book intently.

Nervous chatter sounded behind Roy, but he couldn't concentrate on it. He wouldn't. This was his turn. The others could wait. After waiting for so long – he had no idea exactly _how_ long (he felt sure it could have been weeks) – he was finally getting judged.

_I can't believe this is real. _

It was real – he was really in the Underworld, getting "judged" by a panel of people from ages past. This was the moment his life had been building up to. The moment where he found out if he'd done good. If he'd go to paradise or – he refused to glance at the barren fields beyond the panel – to something worse.

"One of the few in my time," a man commented. Roy couldn't be certain, but he was almost positive it was Thomas Jefferson.

Thomas Jefferson.

_He's dead_, Roy told himself. _Dead for hundreds of years._

A sharp pang in his chest. _Well, Roy. You're dead now, too._

"Roy –" King Aeacus started verbosely, only to cut off. Looking back at the pages of his book, he searched for something. "- O' Conner, is it?" He finally concluded.

Roy nodded. They didn't even remember his name. What could that possibly say about the other deeds he'd done in his life?

"Died in war," Aeacus continued reading from the pages of his book. "A bullet in the chest. Yes. Very noble."

King Aeacus sounded as though he could have cared less.

"We –" Roy began, trying to think of anything to make his life seem more important. To make his death seem as though it'd been brave. "We were advancing on the enemy lines, one of my best buddies, his name is Troy, I couldn't just -"

"Yes," King Aeacus snapped. "I've already read the synopsis."

Roy felt a burst of anger flare up in him – how _dare_ he speak to him so callously – before he realized that this man held his fate in his hands.

"Born and raised in Massachusetts, United States. Son of a millionaire. Mother died years ago. Father spoiled you rotten until you became an arrogant, ungrateful party boy. Joined the war as an act of rebellion. And then you died."

Roy blinked. Yes – it was all true. But it wasn't that simple. He had _reasons_ for all of it. He wasn't a one-sided coin. He was more than those labels.

"Please," Roy finally said. He could feel panic crawling up his arms. They couldn't judge him badly. They just couldn't.

"I'm a good person, I promise."

Thomas Jefferson shook his head sadly. "I expected more from Luke."

Roy looked at him strangely.

King Aeacus cleared his throat loudly. "Now, boy. The council has no choice but to allow you into the Fields of Elysium due to your heroic death, regardless of your previous behavior in life."

Roy felt all the tension leave his body. Paradise.

"However, we are also required to inform you that this is your third heroic life. The third time you've lived, and the third time you've died a hero."

Roy wanted to laugh. But laughter did not seem to be possible in this place.

"You're mistaken," Roy finally managed. "I've only ever just been me."

William Shakespeare – and Roy knew it was him, because he wore a name tag – rolled his eyes.

King Aeacus closed his book and waved it in the air, showing it to Roy plainly.

"I've got the proof, if you refuse to believe me. But let's move past this quibble. Whether you choose to believe it or not, this is the third time we've judged you, Roy. The first time, you were Luke Castellan. The second you were Noah Johnson."

Luke Castellan. Noah Johnson.

He felt no connection, no recollection – nothing – to either of those names.

"Okay?" He replied. "What does that mean?"

King Minos grunted and shook his head. "Useless. All of them - useless. He doesn't even know what he's achieved."

"It means," King Aeacus said without kindness nor malice, "that you may reside on the Isles of the Blest. Reserved only for those who live three heroic lives."

Roy looked around as though he could see these "Isles of the Blest". He couldn't, of course. But a familiar warmth was spreading throughout his body. A pride that he'd had most of his life. A feeling of superiority, of entitlement, of privilege –

"Enough of that," another man on the panel scolded. Roy calmed himself and wondered how they knew what he was feeling.

"You've stood before us twice before and made the choice to return to the living, to be reborn into another life. To drink of the River Lethe and forget all you've ever known."

"I want to remember now," Roy told them. "Tell me about my previous lives."

King Minos laughed without humor. "How silly. You forget for a reason."

King Aeacus nodded curtly. "We've got no time to indulge you. Many more souls to judge before lunch. Please pass."

And he was waved through out of the Judgment Pavilion. Just like that, it was over.

He idled near the exit and looked in every direction. He certainly hoped that the Isles of the Blest were far away from this depressing place. All around him, people – well, he _supposed_ they were still classified as people – wandered about aimlessly, blank looks on their faces. A man with gray hair stumbled across the trail Roy was standing on, his eyes glassy and his clothes worn. Roy suddenly felt the same rush of relief and gratitude he'd felt only moments before – these people, all around him, they were just shadows of who they once were. Probably not a thought in their mind, a hope in their heart – their lives were over –

It was all very depressing.

"I'm your guide," a warm voice spoke suddenly from behind him, startling Roy out of his contemplation. He turned sharply to see a smiling man looking down at him.

"My guide?" Roy asked, scanning the man's attire. A simple blue uniform, a nametag, and work boots.

The man nodded, undeterred by Roy's hesitance. "Follow me."

Roy followed. It was better than wandering around in a field of zombies until he found the Isles of the Blest. Even if this man was crazy, at least he was happy.

Before they took five footsteps, the man was speaking again.

"They aren't allowed to reveal any details about past lives, you know. Against the rules."

Roy shrugged. "Why? I'm dead. What harm could possibly come from it?"

His companion smiled. "Oh, you'd be surprised. Try having three different personas. Three different sets of parents, of relatives, of friends, of personalities, of occupations - well, you get the point. It can be difficult to distinguish who you really are."

Roy couldn't imagine how he'd possibly lived _three_ different lives. He'd been _three_ different people.

The man winked at him. "Yes, I can see where it'd be difficult to come to terms with. You drank from the River Lethe. There's no remembering after you've tasted that water."

They walked in silence for many moments as they journeyed up a hill and toward a tall set of gates in the distance. All Roy could see, past the gates, was a plethora of bright colors that stood out starkly against the dark atmosphere of the rest of the Underworld.

"But what if I wanted to remember? Just to know?" Roy asked curiously.

"The only way you will ever know is if someone recognizes you in there," the man said as he pointed toward the Fields of the Elysium and Isles of the Blest. "Only your memory has been erased, not your appearance."

Roy nodded. "Okay. So I need to find some old friends of Noah Johnson and Luke Castell."

"Castellan," the man corrected. He brought one hand up to rest on Roy's shoulder.

"Congratulations are in order. Not many have the perseverance or the goodness in their hearts to make it to the Isles of the Blest. Only the very best."

Roy nodded, feeling slightly light-headed despite the fact that he was dead.

When they finally reached the gates, Roy looked up at the sign with wonderment and said nothing. He was stunned speechless. This end – the end of his . . . well, _life_, really – was only the beginning. A new journey started beyond the gates in front of him, in this place where he would remain forever.

"This is the last time I will see you," the man said very seriously.

Roy nodded solemnly. He'd only known his guide for a very short amount of time – maybe five minutes, give or take – but be that as it may, he was the only person Roy had. The only one who could wish him well, say goodbye, push him through the gates to his new life.

"Okay," Roy said shakily. "Well, it was nice to know you, I guess. Thanks for helping me."

His companion turned him around and put both hands on his shoulders.

"It is only right that you should see me as well," the man said, his voice soft, continuing his line of thinking as though Roy had not spoken at all.

An excruciating pain shot through Roy's head, down his spine, and to his toes. His vision blacked and his body swayed. This was worse than the bullet that killed him – this was like being ripped apart, slowly and carefully.

When Roy could finally see again, he blinked hard to clear his vision and reached out to grab the man and steady himself.

"What –"

The breath left his body.

Mischievous eyes. A knowing smile. Upturned nose and elfish ears. Salt and pepper hair. And that uniform – there was a nametag – but suddenly, he didn't need a nametag to know that it was – it was –

"Dad."

The earth shook violently as thunder rumbled all around them.

"Yes, yes, blah, blah, blah – I broke the rules –" Hermes muttered, his eyes on the sky. "As if you expected anything different."

Roy – Luke – Noah – He suddenly remembered everything as if he'd never forgotten. Flashes of his most recent life were clearer, of his time as Roy O'Conner. And then flashes of his life as Noah Johnson – it had been a simple life, lived as a farmer and died as an old man.

And then there were his memories of Luke Castellan. The strangest memories he seemed to have, memories that made him wonder if they were nightmares. Fantastical creatures, bloody battles, a man with golden eyes - a girl with blonde hair –

The realization that his final decision as Luke Castellan – the decision to go for the Isles of the Blest – had been realized. Here he was. Standing outside the gates.

With something akin to terror, he stepped back from Hermes. He'd betrayed the Gods, he'd helped Kronos – Luke remembered how temperamental they were, and surely his own father would not forget all the blasphemy Luke had spoken against him. Some of the worst punishments in Olympian history had been dealt out by parents – maybe his hope for a new beginning in the Isles of the Blest was short-lived.

"I'm not here to reprimand you," Hermes muttered softly. His blue eyes were wide, clear, and knowledgeable as they stared imploringly into Luke's.

Luke – Roy – Noah – whoever he was (he could suddenly identify with Hermes' explanation as to why previous lives were forgotten, this was _disorienting_) – shook his head quickly in confusion.

"Why then?"

Luke remembered what it was to feel betrayal; he'd felt it all his life, knowing that his father had turned his back on him and his sick mother. His hurt had eventually turned into anger and driven all his decisions to go against the Gods. Surely Hermes felt betrayed as well. Luke had almost caused the entire destruction of Olympus. That wasn't something minor, after all.

Hermes half-smiled. With jolted surprise, Luke realized that his father's eyes glinted with pride.

"Because you are mine. My son. And whether or not you ever did or ever will acknowledge it – one of my favorite's, Luke. I could not let you enter those gates without you knowing that. I have waited many years for this moment."

Luke felt a tinge of uncertainty. After all these years, after two other _lifetimes_, he still could not decide if he trusted Hermes. Old thoughts – thoughts he had not had since the Titan War, thoughts that had been forgotten in his many drinks of the River Lethe, flowed through his memory. Hermes giving him an old quest, a quest that had been done before. The reputation of Hermes' cabin at Camp Half-Blood. Every word his father had ever said to him – and the things he _hadn't_ said, the things Luke had desperately wanted to hear – resurfaced in his mind.

And suddenly, words were on the tip of his tongue, his anger boiled to the point of hate once more.

"Say it," Hermes told him. "Everything. I want you to say the words."

"You abandoned me," he blurted out, the words coming so fast they were without thought. "You call me your _son_, but I can count the number of times I've seen you in person on one hand. You say I'm one of your favorites but you _never_ tried to help me! You left me alone with Mom, and you knew she was – she was – _crazy_ – and even when I left, you did nothing to help guide me! God of travelers? And yet you did nothing for your own son! I could have done great things, if only you'd given me the chance. Fetch a Golden Apple from the Garden of Hesperides? Ha!" He cut off abruptly.

"You ignored me almost entirely, even after I'd begun to help Kronos. And the worst part – you _knew_ of my fate and you never – you did nothing – and you stand here in front of me and tell me I'm one of your _favorites_, as though I'm just a possession – I – "

With a shake of his head, Luke bit his lip to stop his speech.

"I wasn't permitted to interfere, Luke," Hermes told him softly. "You know the rules."

"The rules – " Luke shook his head again. "And yet you break a rule by returning my memory. Zeus and Poseidon break rules all the time –"

"I couldn't interfere with fate, Luke. Returning your memory is different than preventing a destiny that would ultimately save Olympus. If I had interfered the consequences would have been catastrophic. I could not put my feelings, or yours, above the rest of the world. Being a God is not easy, however you may perceive it. Not helping you was one of the hardest things I have ever done."

He closed his eyes and tried to drown out Hermes' words. He didn't want to hear any of this – he had moved on, well, two lifetimes ago, and he did not want to rehash decades old history. It was over. Luke was more than just Luke now; he was Noah and Roy as well.

"Forever is a long time," Hermes told him, his eyes serious and his lips pursed. "I will not see you again, Luke, and I don't want you to enter the Isles of the Blest without you knowing that I do care, I always have. I have always been proud of you. You _did _accomplish great feats. I have always remembered you. I will not forget you, either. You do matter to me. Whether or not you accept my words this moment or not, I needed you to hear them."

"Gods can't enter the Isles of the Blest?" Luke asked absentmindedly, willing Hermes to finish the conversation. He had never felt comfortable around his father, and he didn't at that moment either; he struggled internally trying to determine if Hermes' words were or genuine or not.

"Not without Hades throwing a hissy fit, at the very least. He doesn't like the rest of us interfering with his territory. And, Luke, although us Gods do have a hard time moving on from old ways and grudges, we _try _to do our best to leave the past in the past. Visiting the dead is not looked upon lightly."

Silence hung between them. Luke looked anywhere but at his father as Hermes continued to stare at him imploringly.

"I should probably go inside," Luke mumbled. Although he felt a slight tinge of nervousness at the prospect of entering the unknown, he figured that the Isles of the Blest would be overall amazing – and definitely more pleasant than his conversation with Hermes.

Hermes drew a reluctant Luke closer to him and uttered something in an unknown language – something that must have been a blessing, although Luke couldn't fathom why he would need one in the afterlife.

"I love you," Hermes spoke in English, and Luke's eyes darted awkwardly to the ground, unable to reciprocate the sentiment. No matter how much he wished reconciliation was possible, the past ten minutes of discussion had not washed away his old negativity.

"When you enter the Isles," Hermes told him quietly, "you will begin anew. You have a unique opportunity because you remember all three of your lives. Luke, the brave and courageous. Noah, the patient and the kind. And Roy, the cunning and mischievous. Most live with the wisdom of one, but you have been given three. Choose the best of each of your lives, Luke, and make that your fourth life."

Hermes' reminder of all of his lives brought back disconcerting memories. Flashes of scenes that could have been from any of his three ran through his mind, and yet, he couldn't quite pinpoint which life each belonged to.

"You might see some familiar faces in there," Hermes told him. "Most will be new."

Luke nodded; he could recall several faces – Annabeth, Thalia – Noah's wife, Grace, and their children – Roy's grandmother, Tracy – friends and acquaintances, and even some of his enemies.

Hermes finally took a step back. "Goodbye, Luke."

Although the words were simple, Luke could hear the meaning his father had placed behind them – sorrow, pride, warmth – and for the first time, he recognized that Hermes' inflection was not fake. His father did look sad, and he had spoken with patience and kindness, and he _had_ come to guide Luke to the Isles, and he _had_ remembered him even after all this time.

How many other children of the Gods could claim that their parent escorted them personally to the afterlife, offering advice and love?

Luke felt overwhelmed. When he looked closely at Hermes' retreating face, he saw recognition there, as though his father knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Thank you," Luke managed to say, although his voice was still slightly mechanic from uttering those words to the last person he thought he'd ever say them to.

Hermes smiled his signature smile and continued to walk backwards, further away from his son.

He pulled something out of his pocket at the same moment he shouted "_Maia!" _

With a flutter of wings from his work boots, Hermes was airborne.

"Say goodbye, George and Martha."

"_Wait! I missed everything!" _Martha cried from the device in Hermes' hand.

"_Well he wouldn't want you interrupting like a mother hen –"_

"_George!" _Martha scolded, sounding absolutely appalled. _"Take that back! A _hen_?"_

"Say goodbye, George and Martha," Hermes repeated tiredly.

"_Goodbye George and Martha."_

"_Really, George, that joke is centuries old."_

"_Well so are you."_

"_Take that _back_!"_

Hermes began to drift further away. A slow, hesitant peace began to settle over Luke as he watched his father fly away.

"_Always knew you had it in you, Luke!"_ George shouted.

"_Oh, yes dear," _Martha called._ "We are so thrilled –"_

"_Call from Apollo, Line One," _George interrupted.

"_Oh yes," _Martha said. "_And you have Zeus on Line Two."_

Their voices drifted into the distance with Hermes, until he blended in with the dark sky of the Underworld.

"Goodbye," Luke muttered half-heartedly.

With a deep breath and a swell of contentment, Luke turned back toward the gates. Music and laughter filled the air. Unadulterated joy.

The gates opened of their own accord. Luke glimpsed the paradise that people waited their entire lives for. Words could not describe the colors, the happiness, the _peace_.

He was Noah and Roy too, of course, but at that moment he was Luke, ending the journey that started decades - maybe centuries - before, when he'd looked at Annabeth in his dying moment and declared he'd try for the Isles of the Blest.

_You always pushed yourself too hard_.

For a moment he laughed, remembering her reply as clear as day. His memories were solidifying gradually, arranging themselves in an order he could understand. Three lifetimes of memories, some good and some bad; they were all still in his head, from his earliest recollections as Luke Castellan to his most recent as Roy. He remembered meeting Grover, opening his first business as Noah Johnson, throwing his first perfect baseball pitch as Roy O'Conner. And finally, his father's last words to him as he began his final, and perhaps best, life.

It had all been worth it.

* * *

Author's Note: I apologize if anything is inaccurate, it's been a while since I've read the books thoroughly. Please leave your thoughts in a review, as it's the only feedback I get. Thank you for reading! :-)


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